


Scar Tissue

by Bohemienne



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Dimidue Week 2019, Eye Trauma, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, M/M, Married Life, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex, Oral sex as catharsis, Past Eye Trauma, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 13:02:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20408179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bohemienne/pseuds/Bohemienne
Summary: Dimitri figures it's time to tell his husband the truth about his missing eye. For Dimidue Week 2019 Day 2 Prompts "Domestic/Marriage" and "Scars."





	Scar Tissue

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea if this is actually how Dimitri loses his eye but it sounded nice and angsty to me!
> 
> Also I probably won't have anything for Days 3 and 4 of Dimidue Week, sorry.

Dedue wakes to his husband whimpering, twitching in his arms with the names of ghosts lodged in his throat. Sometimes he thinks it’s best to let him sleep. The king needs his rest, after all, each morning bringing an endless processional of drama and diplomacy that demands his full attention. But Dedue has always been a light sleeper, his body attuned even in his sleep to spring forward at the slightest threat. And sometimes, the thought of Dimitri facing unknown horrors in his sleep, however fleetingly, hurts him deeper than any scar.

“Beloved.” Dedue pulls Dimitri closer, back to Dedue’s broad chest, Dedue’s lips at his ear. “Your Majesty.”

Dimitri shudders and lurches forward, gulping for air as he surfaces from his nightmare. “I—No—” Slowly he goes limp again and grunts. “’Your Majesty’? Really, now? We have been _married_ for two years—”

Dedue’s so relieved he can’t help but laugh as his nose furrows in Dimitri’s hair. “I thought that might wake you.”

Dimitri seems to shrink into his husband’s arms. It is a time of peace, but he never lost the sharp edges that war whittled on his bones; no matter how brightly he shines in their days in Fhirdiad, night’s long shadows still reach for him. Dedue cannot blame him. He himself dreams of fire and the ache of failure he once felt, when he thought his oath was broken and Dimitri was forever lost.

“Sorry to have woken you, love.” Dimitri turns in his arms so they’re face to face. Moonlight pools in the nest of scars where his right eye once was. “It seems I can’t . . .”

Dedue waits, but his husband stays silent. Carefully, he unsnares his hand from Dimitri’s waist and cups his cheek, thumb tracing the arc beneath the scarred socket. Dimitri hums, soothed, and tips his head forward as Dedue’s mouth presses against that scarred brow.

“Your imprisonment,” Dedue says carefully. “It is what you dream of.”

Dimitri rolls onto his back and stares up at the canopy of their bed. Dedue hesitates; as much as he longs to run his hands down his husband’s smooth, bared chest, he wants to give him space to confront whatever haunts him still.

Finally, Dimitri reaches for him, lacing their fingers together. Dedue brings their joined hands to his lips and kisses each fingertip, slow and reverent. Dimitri’s pleased murmur stokes a fire low in his belly, and Dedue is painfully aware the thin bedsheets tangled around their legs are inadequate to hide his want.

“Dedue.” Dimitri breathes it like a prayer. “I . . .” But then he sighs, and his hand falls away. “You never once asked me how I lost my eye.”

Dedue flexes his now-empty hand. Old habits still have their hooks in him, and he doesn’t want to press. But that was an old life, one best left behind them. In these chambers, in this bed, this life, they are equals.

“I assumed that if you wished me to know, you would have told me by now.”

Dimitri laughs softly to himself. “Of course you did.”

“Is it . . . what you dream of?” Dedue asks carefully.

“One of them. Yes.”

Dedue lowers his gaze. He’d known only that it happened sometime between the prince’s capture—Dedue’s greatest failure, his own ghost he couldn’t shake—and their reunion at the Myrddin Bridge. They thought they’d lost each other. He’d nearly wept at the sight of his beloved, alive still, fighting on—what did he care about a single eye?

“Do you wish to tell me?” Dedue asked.

In response, Dimitri presses him to the mattress, lithe body covering Dedue’s substantial form. Hands rake the shorn sides of Dedue’s head as Dimitri covers his mouth with his own.

Dedue groans into his beloved’s mouth and grips the hard knobs of Dimitri’s hips. Golden hair tickles the sides of his face as he surrenders to that warm, lush mouth; his hips roll forward. Now he’s the one drowning, drowning in his unquenchable passion for his king, and yet it takes all of his will to stop and look Dimitri square in the eye.

“Is this truly what you want?” Dedue asks, even as Dimitri heaves over him, pinning his erection uncomfortably to his stomach. “Or are you merely running from your nightmares?”

Dimitri groans. “You know me too well.” His hand slides between their joined hips. “And you’re _very_ distracting.”

Dedue winces at his own uncomfortable hardness, but manages a wry grin. “You can do with me as you like. But . . . maybe it would help you to say what’s troubling you out loud. Get it out of your head.”

Dimitri laughs, but the smile fades quickly. Dedue releases his shoulders, and Dimitri curls against his chest. “It was . . . after the fall of Fhirdiad.”

Dedue stifles a shudder. The day Cornelia had seized control on behalf of Emperor Edelgard. The damned woman had known them too well; her guards had skillfully separated him from the then-prince just in time for the soldiers to tear down the city gates. He’d managed to escape them, but reaching Dimitri had been out of the question. All he could do was stand on the hillside, the fires carving through the night sky, and feel them rage inside his chest.

“It wasn’t enough to hold me prisoner, awaiting execution.” Dimitri speaks into Dedue’s chest and the silver down coating it, the words vibrating into Dedue’s heart. “They . . . interrogated me, as well. Seeking the whereabouts of my supporters. Of you.”

“Beloved . . .”

“They knew we had the Knights of Seiros’ support. Knew you would run to them for aid.” He darts out his tongue to flick against a taut nipple, and Dedue swallows back a gasp. “They wanted to know where you were, and I couldn’t—I couldn’t—”

“You should have,” Dedue says, less sternly than he might have if his husband’s tongue wasn’t now swirling at that nipple, sucking and teasing.

Dimitri tips his head to meet his gaze, tongue still against flesh, holding eye contact as he slowly drags upward. Under other circumstances, he would be throwing Dimitri onto his back now, hooking those slender legs over his shoulders, losing himself in his king. But he needs to give him the time and space with this. Even if it was unbearably . . . arousing the way Dimitri had chosen to exorcise his pain.

“She laughed as she did it. Cornelia.” Dimitri’s nose traces a path down firm abs to Dedue’s navel. “She said it wouldn’t matter how hard I tried to protect you . . . that she’d make sure when she was done with me, I’d be worthless to you. No longer your b-beautiful prince—”

“No.”

Dimitri’s mouth is skating lower, but Dedue grips him by the chin and brings them face to face once more. Dimitri’s left cheek is damp; his eye glistens with silvery tears. Keeping his own eyes open, Dedue laps them away, slow, tender as he can. Refusing to look anywhere but at his beautiful, incredible husband.

“She lied.” He kisses Dimitri’s forehead, his hair, the corner of his mouth. “She lied and deceived, always, and now she is dead.” He licks past Dimitri’s lips in soft, shy movements. “Nothing could ever make you less beautiful to me.” He tastes of salt and sweetness, tears that never need to be shed again. “There is nothing in all of Fódlan that could dampen my love for you.”

The fragile smile Dimitri dons shatters Dedue’s heart. “You mean that? Truly?”

“A thousand times yes.” Dedue smiles back and skims his fingers down Dimitri’s spine. “Though perhaps it’s better if I show you—”

“No.” Dimitri presses a finger to his lips. “Allow me.”

Dedue arches one eyebrow. “Is that an order, Your Majesty?”

“Only if it needs to be.”

Dedue exhales and settles back. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Good.”

And then his king’s—his husband’s—his _Dimitri’s_ lips are at the base of his shaft, tongue circling, warm breath taunting the head of his cock. And—oh, Dedue would die a thousand deaths for this sight, this perfect man nestled in his lap, taking hold of him and easing those beautiful lips around him, enveloping him in heat and want. His tongue presses against the underside of Dedue’s shaft as his mouth begins to slide, agonizingly slow as a fierce haze of desire overwhelms him. His hands reach for fistfuls of soft golden hair, gathering it back from his love’s face so he can see him better, admire him in all his beauty, all his scars.

Dimitri murmurs softly, lips vibrating against him, and quickens his pace. While he does, his hands roam free, finding the valleys of scars that mark Dedue’s skin, too. From axe blows, from fires, from an arrow lodged in his thigh as the Duscur rebels carried him far from Fhirdiad and away from what should have been his fate. The thick calluses of his thumbs numb the sensation somewhat as he works them against his husband’s scalp, but nothing can dull the bliss of what they’ve become, against overwhelming odds.

Survivors.

King of Faerghus and his husband, Emissary to the new Republic of Duscur.

Lovers.

Equals.

Bound together because it was their choice, both their choice, always theirs.

The scars on their flesh and their hearts and even their dreams were a worthy price for that freedom. For their people’s freedom. For every moment—for this—snatched back from those who fought a war to see them dead, and lost.

And then Dimitri is humming again, and his mouth is a deep well, and Dedue is drowning—overcome with relief and pleasure and love. He clenches his jaw as his fists tighten in golden hair and his gaze fixes on that one beautiful, perfect, endlessly blue eye that always saw straight through to his heart.

And then he’s sinking, sinking into bliss.

He comes back to himself as his husband is kissing him again, lips salty with his own taste, and his babbling now, he knows, unable to do anything else with the rush of love in his heart. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry she hurt you—because of me—”

“Shh. I’m not.” Dimitri’s thumb presses down on Dedue’s lips, then he kisses him as though he fears he might shatter. “She saw what I couldn’t. That there was nothing—_nothing_—I wouldn’t endure for you.”

Dedue only realizes the tears are coming as one slides from his eye. This, too, Dimitri kisses, before sliding to one side to curl against Dedue, looking so weary and sated and drowsy now that he’s said what he needed to say. Dedue brushes the hair back from his face, fingers tracing his scarred brow, and in the knotted scar tissue of his husband’s empty eye socket, too, he sees perfection.

“Well, let’s not make a habit of it, love.” Dedue closes his eyes, feeling his whole body relax and melt against Dimitri’s own. “I think you’re out of spares.”

Dimitri’s soft laugh turns into the easy sighs of dreamless sleep.


End file.
